It's only fair...

I was looking at some paintings and prints at The Village Friends Thrift Shop recently. They have some very interesting things there – and not just the paintings. The place is full of treasures. I am surprised that I don’t buy something every time I stop in there. I have to keep reminding myself that I already have too much stuff. Sometimes that works. The other thing about going there is that the people there are super nice. I so love nice people. Village Friends, as you may know, is an organization of volunteers who help senior citizens with all kinds of things from changing high up light bulbs and flipping mattresses to providing outings and very cool get-togethers.  It’s a lovely thing. Anyway – to get to the point…. Looking at the artwork there got me to thinking that, quite frankly, I have never been sure how to “appreciate” a painting… how to understand it.  You know – really “get it”.  I feel that way about “arty” photographs as well.  It just seems to come down to an unknown something that “speaks” to me.  I like it or... not so much. 

Portraits are my favorite type of painting.  Eyes, to me, are the key. It’s in eyes from which facial expression takes direction.  I think that is true in real life as well.  (I find blue eyes to be especially fascinating -- maybe because I grew up in a family of really dark brown eyes. When she was sitting across from me one time - a long time ago now, I noticed that looking at my daughter holding her two little kids on her lap was like looking into a small dish of large black olives. Actually that is still true at any gathering of the family. Lots of black olive eyes.) To go further though -- I like to try to figure out what eyes are saying. It’s a bit of a mystery to me…in paintings and in real life too. I saw the Mona Lisa once when it was on tour - never could understand her eyes. Still do not.

I do wish that I could paint (or sing, or both).  No luck with either of those things though.  I can’t dance either.  Took a ballet class one time at The Community Center… was one of two adults in the class. I think the instructor was a bit surprised to see any adults show up. (She was a kind soul.)  I looked on with envy at all the seven- and eight-year-olds leaping about and landing without so much as a sound – let alone a thud.  They were graceful feathers floating easily here and there. They were sprites. I am still amazed all these years later when I think about them. I, on the other hand,  was more of a wet bag landing on unset concrete.  Even so, the class was amazingly fun actually.  The other adult had a wonderful sense of humor. Good thing. 

Again – I wish that I could paint. "A picture is worth a thousand words." Maybe part of the secret is really a mindfulness in the way you look at things – catching all the fine detail.  When I was in college I did a few realistic paintings – one still hangs  -- in my bathroom. (Does that location tell you anything?) It is an enormous painting that looks and feels like a brick wall.  The finishing touch was the window I drew on it with chalk.  I like it even today - so many years later.  To me it speaks on levels and holds a few memories. The other foray into painting was a self-portrait I also painted while in that “suffering artist” phase.  My Mom, who actually was a painter, took one look at my creation, said she hated it and declared it to be awful. She put it in the back of a storage closet. Now for those of you who knew my Mom, you know that such a vehement response was unlike her.  It took me by surprise.  I never painted anything again unless you count interior walls. She actually covered it, a few years later, with acrylic gesso (several layers) and reused the canvas when she painted a still life of flowers in colors that matched my couch. What can I say?  So – I accept that I am not a painter.  It’s okay.  I can do other stuff. I am, for example, a whiz at acrostic  and logic puzzles and am relatively skilled in a variety of crafts – just give me a pattern I like and I am able to knit, crochet, macramé, cross stich, embroider, etc. My lasagna is impressive. Yep… It all counts.  Oh -- my handwriting is relatively easy to read and I am quite good at organizing things.  Now that is a handy talent and one that is easy to understand. Am thinking now -- I still have most of the artwork that my own kids did when they were little. I have an enormous amount of creations by my grandkids as well.  It is organized.

So -- still not a painter, I do try to appreciate “art”.  I have several pieces in my home... everything from wood carved treasures to signed and numbered prints and several of my Mom's paintings. Some of the art - like my hand carved trees -  is just standing around. Some is hung at my eye level so I can really take a close look at it from time to time. Other pieces are actually hung sort of at my knee level.  I hung them low when my local grandkids were little and have come to like them like that over the years.  You can see them when you are sitting down. I have become accustomed to things that way.  I am not moving anything.  Maybe someday I will have other little ones here who also deserve to take a look at art at their eye level. I think it is only fair. Little kids are in a perpetual state of looking up. It must be exhausting.